


Night Terror

by s0mmerspr0ssen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other, Tendrils, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0mmerspr0ssen/pseuds/s0mmerspr0ssen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Struggling was bad, a no-go – Sherlock knew the rules by now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Terror

**Author's Note:**

> This happened because I have no shame. Tentacle/tendril porn is just such a weird but strangely compelling concept...

Sometimes, Sherlock thought he was going insane.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing rational about this. He knew that these kinds of things simply _didn't happen_. There weren't any scientific studies – God knew he'd been looking for them. All he had ever been able to dig up were a handful of spooky old tales and a few bulletin board entries on the internet that sounded like they had been written by a bunch of complete nutters.

Maybe Sherlock was a nutter as well, then. He was quite sure he would be institutionalised if he ever went to a doctor or professional of some kind to talk about it.

 _It_ being what happened whenever Sherlock went to sleep.

It didn't matter where or when he slept. He could lie in his bed, he could doze off on the sofa, he could even drift off on a bloody hospital chair – it wouldn't make any difference. Sherlock had tried the obscurest places – roof tops, trees, bus stops and, though he still liked to pretend that he had deleted that particular incident altogether, the back of a horse.

The location really did not matter in the slightest – it always happened _somehow_ , if more discreetly in some cases. As long as he was _asleep_ , Sherlock Holmes was going to be assaulted.

And there really wasn't any other word for it than that – _assaulted_.

It had started on the night he had turned eighteen and ever since then, it hadn't stopped. Night for night and nap for nap, it would happen again and again. And there wasn't a single thing Sherlock could do about it.

Unless you counted the drugs. The drugs had helped, had made it stop even. But that relief had come with a price; not only a material price, but a mental one as well, and ultimately, a price that Sherlock hadn't been able nor willing to pay.

So now, Sherlock's strategy was avoiding sleeping as much as possible. It came in quite handy during cases, which was a plus, but the biggest of advantages was that in the end, when he did have to sleep, he'd be so exhausted that he wouldn't be lucid enough to actively struggle.

And struggling was bad, a no-go – Sherlock knew the rules by now.

There were three of them; three simple but highly important little laws.

Number one – don't put up a fight, _never_. It will only make it worse.

Number two – don't shout for help, don't make _any_ noise unless it's one of appreciation. That, too, will make it worse.

Number three – don't leave when it's over. Unless you want another turn.

By now, Sherlock was fairly good at dealing with it, dealing with the whole _thing_. On occasions, he still felt desperate, felt like crying, felt like telling somebody, _anybody_ really. But not even Mycroft had believed him – Mycroft who had always, _always_ listened.

Which was why, nowadays, Sherlock Holmes simply accepted his situation and worked himself to exhaustion until he'd _have_ to go to bed.

Today was a day like that.

The case had been a long and tricky one, the kind Sherlock loved the most, with hardly any clues to work from and lots of legwork. Sherlock loved the chase, the hunt – it distracted him from what was to come.

The end, however, Sherlock dreaded. The end meant it was time for another round of sleep. Well, he said _sleep_.

Sherlock had special going-to-bed rituals by now. Whenever he decided it was time to _lie down_ , he would go through the same steps. It helped to calm him down and prepare for what was to come.

First of all, he'd take a long, warm shower, to ease his muscles and help his body relax. He'd dry his hair, brush it and arrange it as if he were going on a date. He'd brush his teeth, rub some lotion into his skin, then dress in a pair of loose and soft pyjama bottoms.

He didn't bother with underwear anymore. He knew better than that.

Taking deep, calming breaths, Sherlock would look in the mirror then. He'd look and say: "You can do it. It's fine. It will be over soon."

His body would feel great after the good treatment, which would _almost_ make Sherlock believe in his own words.

Then, he'd go to bed – which was where he was lying right now.

The waiting was the worst. Always four minutes and thirty seconds of excruciatingly long waiting. Sherlock kept himself from running by sheer force of will, curling his hands into the bed sheets when, at the moment, there wasn't a reason to – yet.

He was exhausted, yes, but he still knew what would happen and the panicked hammering of his own heart was why he was never able to fall asleep before the time was up.

Closing his eyelids, Sherlock took a last deep breath through his nose and willed himself to sleep.

Thirty seconds later, strong tugging at the hems of his trousers startled him awake.

It had begun.

Once, Sherlock had made the mistake and left on the light in the bedroom. He'd never make that mistake again. _Never._

It was enough to _feel_ the hands, feel the scrawny fingers brush over his calves as they pulled down the piece of fabric in practiced ease. Sherlock didn't want to _see_ it happen, didn't want to see the hands and, most importantly, didn't want to see the fat _tendrils_.

Sherlock didn't know what _exactly_ they were, other than the spawns of the darkest nightmare. Hands, he could deal with, could explain away with a very skinny boyfriend that didn't talk. But the long, thick and strangely smooth tentacles he could _not_ ignore.

As always, they grew right out of the sheets, right out of the mattress underneath, curling around Sherlock's upper arms and wrists like ropes, restraining him. They still gave him enough space to move and the option to struggle, but Sherlock knew how strong they were – way to strong for him to win in a fight against them.

Biting back a frustrated grunt, Sherlock pressed the back of his head into the pillows and tried hard not to notice the pair of hands now getting a good hold of his ankles, tugging and pulling until his legs were spread widely.

Sherlock didn't know why this was about sex. He wasn't sure if he really wanted to find out, either.

He shivered when the tips of two tendrils brushed over the soles of his feet before moving upwards, caressing the inside of his calves, his knees, his thighs.

Until now, Sherlock's body was relatively uninterested in what was going on unless you counted the quickened breathing and fast beating of his heart. As one of the long, thick tendrils that had brushed over his legs curled around the base of his cock, though, Sherlock couldn't help it – he started to get hard.

He had long stopped being disgusted with himself, with his body's reactions. There wasn't anything he could do against it, really. It simply felt too distracting, too _good_ , the way the pressure increased and decreased, the way the smooth surface of the tendril brushed over veins and skin, ever so slightly teasing the head of Sherlock's cock.

An erection was inevitable with this degree of stimulation.

All the while, the hands and restraining tentacles didn't move, simply made sure that Sherlock wasn't going anywhere.

Soon enough, Sherlock felt moisture trickling down the side of his cock. He was fully hard by now, unable to resist the friction the clever tendrils provided. While one of them was still stroking his cock, the other had turned to teasing his balls, tracing them in what one might have described as tenderness.

It never really hurt, not unless Sherlock truly _struggled_.

His breathing had gone ragged by now and even though it was nearly pitch black in his room, Sherlock's eyes were screwed shut. He flinched when a new pair of hands appeared from nowhere, sharp fingernails scratching over his rips as they curled around Sherlock's chest. Two skinny and way too long fingers found his nipples and started pinching them, rubbing them and it didn't take long until they turned into hard little buds.

A small whimper escaped Sherlock's lips and the restraining tendrils around his arms and wrists squeezed briefly but tightly, a gentle reminder not to do anything stupid.

Still, Sherlock wasn't able to repress the little cry of protest when the tendril around his cock loosened its grip and moved downwards, slipping in between Sherlock's buttocks.

Suddenly, it felt even slicker, almost moist, and Sherlock knew just what was about to happen.

Sherlock had a theory about the wetness, about lubricating secretions. He had once tried to determine just what it was made of, putting a remaining sample under his microscope. His next sleep, to make an understatement, hadn't been enjoyable in the least.

The tendril was now teasing his entrance in small, circular motions and Sherlock moaned quietly as the hands around his ankles tugged some more, further spreading his legs. The other pair that had been curled around his chest ceased teasing his nipples in favour of moving underneath Sherlock's back to support him, pushing his hips upwards to grant the tendril better access to Sherlock's arse.

It always took its time with penetrating, starting with only the very tip, thin and slippery, carefully easing its way inside.

Usually, Sherlock could keep silent, bite his lips and endure the teasing. But for some reason he wasn't able to restrain himself tonight. Another whimper escaped him and his left leg twitched, more in reflex than actual struggling.

Immediately, the tentacles around his arms tightened, with the hands around his ankles following suit.

The penetrating tendril was pushing in further now, stretching Sherlock as its thicker parts passed the muscle. Only moments later, the pointed tip brushed over Sherlock's prostrate and Sherlock's hips jerked upwards, trying to get away because it felt good, way _too_ good.

His restraints weren't having any of it. Squeezing tightly, they were holding him back as the tendril inside of him moved, brushing over that sweet spot over and over again.

Sherlock's cock was aching now, throbbing and incredibly moist. The other tentacle, that had until now still been caressing his balls, decided to move. It brushed over Sherlock's glans in the lightest, cruellest motion, further spreading the ever-leaking pre-cum over the flushed skin and Sherlock moaned, shamefully loudly.

Apparently, even moaning wasn't appreciated tonight.

Sherlock realised that as soon as he felt another tendril grow, brushing past his ear and caressing his hair before it curled around Sherlock's jaw. The tip nudged Sherlock's lips, which he had closed immediately. When Sherlock didn't open his mouth voluntarily, the tendril simply pushed and prodded forcefully until it succeeded in parting Sherlock's teeth all by itself.

Now, he was being violated from two sides, one tendril brushing over his tongue and teeth, exploring his mouth, while the other was slowly but determinedly thrusting into Sherlock's arse, driving him closer and closer to his climax.

Any kinds of noises were muffled by the fat tendril in his mouth and even biting down on it didn't help at all – undoubtedly, these things were incapable of feeling pain.

Sherlock was gagged and completely helpless.

Jerking and trembling, Sherlock was nearly completely mute as he was approaching his climax. His buttocks clenched and unclenched, further enhancing the feeling of being _fucked_ by the long and thick tentacle. Sweat coated Sherlock's legs and chest, making him feel hot and sticky, until only one thought possessed Sherlock's mind: _Make it stop_.

And then, finally, _finally_ , the ever-teasing tendril brushing over his glans curled around his cock properly, squeezing once, _hard_.

He came, semen shooting from his throbbing cock, coating his upper thighs and lower stomach in equal parts, eventually dribbling down on the sheets.

Reduced to breathing through his nose, Sherlock wheezed, eyes now wide open, staring aimlessly into darkness as the high of his orgasm rushed through his body, making his muscles contract before they relaxed.

Sherlock's body turned limp.

Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, the tendril inside of him slipped past his buttocks, pulling out. Simultaneously, the skinny hands and smooth restraints around his limbs loosened and disappeared to wherever they came from in the first place.

The only thing remaining was the tentacle still violating Sherlock's mouth. The tip was now brushing over the very back of his throat, triggering Sherlock's gag reflex.

Tears sprang to his eyes as he was unable to cough and for one long, terrible, frightening moment, it felt like Sherlock was chocking to death.

Then, the tendril pulled out and Sherlock gasped, loudly, gulping in air like a man who had been drowning underwater.

Trembling, Sherlock pulled his legs and arms in, now that he was alone once more. He curled up like a child, trying to calm his breath as he hid his sweaty face in his shaking hands.

He felt violated and incredibly weak. His legs were sticky and he was filled with the odd, slick substance that had oozed from the penetrating tendril. By now, it had dried a bit, feeling like gritty glue.

Suppressing a sob – a crying fit wouldn't help – Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and moved his hands, hugging his legs close.

Oh, how he'd love to move, to take a shower. But rule number three was firmly engraved in his mind – never leave afterwards.

Sherlock didn't even bother to move underneath the blanket. Feeling more exhausted than ever, Sherlock gladly succumbed to the now fast approaching dizziness, the numbness of mind.

For now, he would be allowed to sleep, to rest in peace.

Until next time.  
_____  
 _fin._


End file.
